Broken Noxian, Broken Blade
by Melancholy Exile
Summary: A blade may mirror its owner but a sword cannot know pain or suffering. This is a short one-shot attempting to answer just how the exile's blade came to reflect the one who wields it.


Faces flickered in the flames of the camp-fire, the same faces that had been forever burned into her mind. Try as she might, Riven still couldn't believe that she had lost them. Fury had been her company, and the closest thing she knew to family, for as long as she cared to remember and now … now they were gone. All she had left were memories and there were times when she would rather be without those too. It wouldn't hurt so much if she could simply let them ebb away and die.

The night was far colder than she had ever expected from Ionia. Between the meagre fire and the tattered remnants of her uniform, she somehow escaped the bitterest edge of the chill. Moments like this warmed her a little to her distant blade. Pitched, monolithic in the moonlight, it served as something of an improvised wind break. Without a war, it was good for precious little else.

Riven felt very much the same. Here she was, lost deep in the lands of her enemy, and yet she had no marker to aim for aim for once Ionia was long behind her. She lived for Noxus, for her friends … for war. Now the exile found herself facing a future without any of those on the path ahead of her. What reason did she have to keep on living?

Her eyes turned to her blade, contempt stirring in the back of her mind. Its emerald runes glittered in the dim firelight, their meaning all too familiar, as if it too knew what she was thinking. Had it not been at her side all this way? Was it not the reason she was still alive today?

Where would she be without it?

The soldier could scarcely remember the last time she had willingly fought with another blade. It felt as though the weapon were a part of her - as if it always had been there. That realisation sent a fresh chill running through her, making her feel a little nauseous. It was little more than a mass of black rock and yet … she couldn't let it go. Did it really mean more to her than the lives of those she loved so much? Had she really let them die so she could save a gift from their murderers?

The exile hung her head. She knew what had to be done.

* * *

Angry sparks blazed in the darkness, casting long shadows on the rocks, as the next retort shivered down her arms. She could feel it now. It couldn't be much longer, surely?

_Please stop_

Her chest heaved, gasping for breath. It wasn't working. Anger, brighter still than the blade's protestations, roared in Riven's breast. Even now, no mark marred its flawless face. Her spirit had been shattered, but it still remained flawless, uncaring. Sooner or later, she would simply have to accept defeat.

_No more_

Quivering, feverish with exertion, the soldier threw what little she had left in her behind a few final, futile blows. What hope did she have left? Her blade - the last piece of Noxus she still bore - had proved stronger than she could hope to match. It stood uncaring and unmoved by her plight, a self-fulfilling prophesy of torment. That part of her soul she so dearly longed to sever. Each blow served as another reminded of the sheer pointlessness of it all: It was hopeless; it was useless; it was …

_You don't have to do this!_

The blade squealed in agony, emerald flames breaching its once-perfect surface. Great gleaming rents tore open across its facets as powerful Noxian magics burst forth from their bindings. Etheric winds battered the exile, threatening to wrench the shaft from her gauntlet's weakened grasp, but somehow she held firm. Faced with all this power, Riven could only hang on. The blade would be the one to break.

Torrents of roiling energy split the darkness like a sickly dawn. Time hung still, the world abruptly silent, as one last crescendo of fell magics rose from the inner heart of the weapon. A final gout of spectral power ascended from the void within the stone, towering over its bearer as if some great ethereal serpent. It plunged into the heart of the Noxian's form, her body overflowing with energy, throwing her into violent paroxysms. Tongues of green flame licked at her eyes and seared her very soul as the morass of coruscating power forcibly returned to its host.

Utterly spent, both weapon and its wielder fell. Darkness once more fell upon the valley and wrapped them both within its endless embrace. They were truly alone once more:

The broken Noxian and her broken blade.


End file.
